Lost Between a Hug and a Handshake
by 0equilibrium0
Summary: Sherlock tries to show affection. The only problem? He has no idea how.


Sherlock had never been good at gestures of affection. Before, that had never been an issue. Then came John, and suddenly lots of things that had never been issues suddenly were. Like his late night violin performances. Like the experiments in varying degrees of completion spread out all over the flat. Like occasionally entering his living room to find one of his homeless network sleeping on the couch. Like getting calls from Lestrade at four-thirty in the morning. Like not being able to express affection.

And the worst part was, he _wanted_ to change, he _wanted_ to make John happy. And the worst part of _that _was that he didn't know why.

Some things were easily changed (restraining his experiments to one part of the flat, for instance). Others he had no control over (Lestrade didn't give a damn who was trying to sleep as long as it wasn't himself). And still others John had grown accustomed to (he didn't have the heart to tell the Irregulars they couldn't stay, and Sherlock's music wasn't really that bad).

Of course, that still left the matter of showing affection. That was one dilemma that, as far as Sherlock was aware, John didn't know about.

The first step, Sherlock decided, was study. How did other people express fondness? Was it with physical gestures? Certain words or phrases? Some combination of the two?

He started people-watching. Couples strolling hand-in-hand, friends bickering and punching each other in the arm, siblings teasing and fighting. There was an overabundance of data, but it was all inconclusive. It varied too much from person to person to be of much use.

Picking a fight seemed to be an acceptable manner of showing affection, which Sherlock found completely illogical. He only very briefly considered trying that method with John before deciding that, in their case, they fought often enough anyway that he wouldn't be able to tell the difference.

Another common method was compliments. That seemed, at first, like it would work. Then Sherlock realized that the only times he'd ever complimented John had been when he was trying to apologize for something, so the doctor would probably assume he'd done something which required an apology.

That left physical contact. Sherlock wasn't good at physical contact. He'd never needed to be. But that, like everything else, was turned on its head. It would probably be a good idea to start out small and see how John reacted.

So the next morning, when Sherlock entered the kitchen to find John sitting at the table, drinking coffee and reading the newspaper, he decided to begin the action phase of his experiment.

"Good morning," John greeted without looking up.

"Good morning," Sherlock echoed. He put his hand on John's shoulder, then let it slide down his arm as he continued walking.

John gave Sherlock a questioning glance, but returned his attention to the paper when no explanation was forthcoming.

Sherlock frowned at the coffeepot. He didn't quite know what to make of John's (lack of) reaction. Was he being too subtle? He set his mug down and went to stand behind the doctor. John ignored him. Sherlock placed his hands on John's shoulders and leaned forward slightly, ostensibly to read the newspaper. In reality, he was trying to gauge John's response (and pretending he wasn't relishing every second they were in contact).

"Do you want something?" John sighed, angling his head to look up at Sherlock.

John's shoulders were tense, Sherlock noted. Not awkward-physical-contact tense, but stress tense. He debated his next course of action. He absently rubbed his thumbs in circles on John's neck as he thought over his options.

The doctor frowned suspiciously at Sherlock. "Can I help you, or do you want to just stand there not talking?"

Sherlock 'hmm'ed in response. John could feel the sound rumble in Sherlock's chest against the back of his head. John heaved a sigh, gave his newspaper an agitated shake, and set about pointedly ignoring Sherlock.

The experiment wasn't a complete failure. Sherlock did learn that John didn't respond overly much to (much of anything) physical contact before he had finished his first cup of coffee. He decided to try again later in the day.

They ended up helping Lestrade with a grisly home invasion (the neighbors did it) until nearly six. John scarfed down several helpings of Mrs. Hudson's beef stew when they got home—apparently solving crime was hungry work. Sherlock mostly pushed his around in his bowl, though he did deign to nibble a few chunks of potato.

After eating, the duo settled into their usual spots, each with his own laptop. It was time to continue the experiment.

Sherlock levered himself off the couch to perch on the arm of the chair John was sitting in. John raised an eyebrow at him, but refrained from commenting and continued looking through the messages people had left on his blog.

"Well, that's not very nice," John muttered, scowling at one of the comments. Sherlock twisted to see what he was talking about.

_ur a fag. the detective is a fag. u shud both—_

John hit delete before Sherlock had a chance to finish reading it. "I hate people like that." John closed his laptop with a bit more force than was strictly necessary and set it on the floor.

"The only thing you can't tolerate is intolerance?" Sherlock quipped.

"Something like that," John agreed with a wry smile and a snort of laughter. They sat in companionable silence. John was leaning into Sherlock slightly, something Sherlock found himself wishing he would do more often. He wondered, suddenly, what John's hair felt like. Rather than continue wondering, he decided to find out. He lightly ran his fingers over the short locks. John twitched, then was still, like he was making an effort not to jerk away. Buoyed by his somewhat-success, Sherlock continued threading his fingers through John's hair, delighting in the gentle slide of the strands.

"What are we doing, Sherlock?" John groaned, resting his head on the detective's chest.

Sherlock frowned. "I'm assuming you don't mean that question literally. Working on that assumption, I don't understand the question."

John laughed quietly. "That's okay." He didn't elaborate. He did, however, take the hand that wasn't tangled in his hair and twine it with his own.

"Hm." Sherlock looked down at their hands, laced together and resting on his thigh. He wasn't quite sure what to do, but he thought that a kiss was the next logical step. He fidgeted nervously. He didn't know if he was ready for a kiss.

"Sherlock? Is something wrong?" John had apparently noticed his discomfort. He began to draw his hand away; Sherlock tightened his grip. John left his hand where it was.

"I'm fine." The response came out in a whisper, though Sherlock for the life of him couldn't say why.

John shifted to face him better. "Are you sure?"

"I'm always sure." Sherlock's voice had regained its confidence.

"C'mere," John said abruptly. He tugged on Sherlock's hand, pulling the detective into his lap. "You shouldn't be skinny enough to do this," he murmured accusatorily, though there was no real admonishment in his tone.

Sherlock shifted until he was comfortable, curled up on John, his back to the doctor's chest.

"You're bony," John complained, but he stopped Sherlock when he moved to leave. "I didn't say you weren't welcome." He rested his chin on Sherlock's shoulder and began twisting his fingers through sooty curls.

"Can we…" Sherlock cleared his throat and began again. "Can we just stay like this? For now."

"Of course." John leaned his forehead between Sherlock's shoulder blades "For however long you want."

..

Goodness gracious, the last few paragraphs of this were hard to write. Not because of the content, but because I was having trouble focusing long enough to string to words together, let alone a complete sentence. I apparently have a very dirty subconscious. See, this morning, my girlfriend (completely innocently) mentioned that she had six cans of whipped cream at home. Yeah. So all day I've been having whipped cream-coated (and flavored—no, stop it!) daydreams.


End file.
